


The Final Pip

by MischiefJoKeR



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Great Game, Case Fic, Dubious Consent, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Jim from IT, Kissing, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Kissing, Texting, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 12:13:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2428289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MischiefJoKeR/pseuds/MischiefJoKeR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We can talk murder. And Moriarty. [10:49:41]</p><p>What of? SH [10:50:10]</p><p>Well, I think I might know a suspect. [10:52:14]</p><p>Sherlock only had to think ‘go on’ for the phone to go off once more.</p><p>When I started IT at a different place. This guy needed some cameras set up, but had to go through a bunch of his employees to get it done and got paid extra to keep shut up. Place looked pretty sketchy. He never let me hear his voice, only leaving notes or texts. Like hide and seek in his computer room. And he had a lot of cameras too. Everywhere. CCTV, practically.  [10:52:49]</p><p>Sherlock watched the screen, eyes darting over the words once, then twice.</p><p>I think I have time for coffee. SH [10:54:08]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Final Pip

**Author's Note:**

> Started longggg ago for my 500 followers giveaway on Jimlock tumblr. For Mr-foox, who got 3rd prize of a 4,500 word fic. I guess I got a bit carried away with the idea. Hope you enjoy!

_“So you’re Sherlock Holmes? Molly’s told me all about you.”_

Sherlock’s brows furrowed further and his lips twisted.

_“Nice to meet you.”_

The detective gave a ‘harumph’, slinging an arm over his chest and rolling over onto his side. The back of the couch was stupid to look at. He rolled once more onto his other side. Ugh, the main area of the flat was boring too. It did nothing to help cease such insipid thoughts. He rolled again, onto his back and ignoring how his dressing gown bunched up and folded around his hips. There, the ceiling would have to do.  He could recount the cracks in the wall and recite how idiotic they were, too small to even contain any interesting spiders.

_“Well, I’d better be off.”_

“Ugh,” Sherlock rumbled, crossing his arms and bunching his shoulders. He’d gone to Bart’s today with John, discovering Carl Powers’ shoes still fresh in his mind. Why, though? He had hours left until the victim was, assumedly, blown to bits. Shoes, shoes shoes shoes…

_“His underwear?!”_

Sherlock slung his feet to the floor, letting them pull his torso up. Bare feet clomped over the coffee table, continuing his previous pacing in the room. There must be a link to the Carl Powers case. He simply had to remember, all those years back. For a man it’d be impossible, but not Sherlock Holmes. Distraction would not—

His phone dinged across the room, for the third time since arriving home. John had run off with someone or another to chase some pointless lead and left Sherlock here, to the wicked device of his mind. With a few heavy, thudding steps sure to chip the ceiling of ratty 221c, he snatched his phone from the side table.

Hey! [16:24:12]

Sorry. I got your number off Molly. How’s the case?? [16:52:54]

Obviously, Molly was in denial or something. Her boyfriend was gay as a rainbow and gave Sherlock his number, which he promptly binned, only to received texts from the same gent. Sherlock was quite assured that normal social standards deemed this as ‘trying too hard’. He flicked through the phone to read the newest message.

Just curious. I’ll be surprised if you haven’t figured it out by now. [18:14:23]

Sherlock’s lips screwed up into a scowl once more. His fingers were tapping the keys before his mind even caught up.

I have time. There’s only a life on the line. Do Molly a favor and don’t look so desperate. SH [18:15:47]

He gripped the phone in his fingers, pacing around the living room again. Whoever planted the shoes was involved in the case, years ago. They also must know the younger detective’s involvement with the case, especially since the clue was placed below his very feet. Then, the killer must for some reason want to be discovered by Sherlock for their crime all those years ago. Back again. Carl Powers, school boy, swim team, eczema, big feet—the phone in his hand buzzed. His eyes widened and he peered back down at it.

Oh, just /one/ life.  You like serial killers, there’s probably more, aren’t there? [18:16:51]

With another scoff, Sherlock moved to pocket the device once more, when it buzzed.

Of course there are. Sorry. So, ‘whodunnit’? [18:17:03]

Sherlock found himself typing the words ‘I don’t know’, before realizing he _never_ didn’t know. It was too early in the case. That’d work. Yet again, it seemed to be a further cop out on the answer. Did he mind who did it? Yes, his mind supplied. This was brilliant. Murder gift-wrapped with a bow and his name put on it, something that was saved up for years to be given as a morbid gift. He licked his lips, watching the peeling wallpaper over one of the recently repaired windows. Shame the wallpaper couldn’t even stay up after a day.

I have a suspicion. SH [18:19:05]

He settled for that, crossing the length of the living room again. Honestly, John needed to reappear so Sherlock had someone to sound board off. He had to settle for texting some simpleton instead of talking to his favorite simpleton.

It’s him then? [18:19:45]

Somehow the words just caused Sherlock’s muscles to stiffen. John had said it too, hadn’t he? The idea must have crossed his mind. The clues on his website though, were definitely odd. It would explain how someone—Moriarty—knew about his knowledge of Carl Powers.  Petty games, and the riddles too? The connection must have come together in his mind but he’d never taken the time to notice.

_SHERLOCK I HAVE FOUND YOU_

He involuntarily scowled over the room, atop the clutter of his unused writing desk, where his laptop sat. The glare must have lasted longer than intended, because his phone went off in his hand once more.

I read it on John’s blog, after today. Moriarty. Sent you the weird messages too? [18:22:36]

The backs of his knees hit his chair, the slightest shift letting him collapse down into the leather chair. His eyes stayed on the screen.

Possibly. SH [18:23:02]

I heard Molly say that they called you because of a note at a crime scene. [18:23:46]

A letter, addressed to me, with a cell phone similar to one on a previous case. It gives me clues and the perpetrator the opportunity to let his victims call during their wait. SH [18:24:13]

Clever. [18:24:28]

Sherlock peeled his eyes away enough to eye the door. The downstairs door fell shut with a clatter of the knocker. Creaking steps didn’t start right away, some muffled sound instead. John’s back, but stopping to chat with Mrs. Hudson. Likely then he realizes he’s found nothing of importance. Sherlock got to his feet, shrugging off his suit jacket and at the table where his temporary lab was stationed. He fiddled with some knobs, pulling goggles over his head and letting them rest in a mass of curls. The door of the flat opened moments later, a quiet hello coming from the army doctor. Sherlock glanced over, eyes back on his phone. John seemed to catch this, going to the kitchen and turning on the kettle.

“I was thinking takeaway again tonight. We got a long one ahead of us?”

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed, looking over the text again with the slightest hint of a smile. “Chinese would be excellent, thanks.”

Brilliant. SH [18:30:49]

 

A long night later, as John predicted, the pair rested in the diner. Connie Prince—that was her name—had her photo on the pink phone. As John got the remote control from the front counter, the pink phone rang. Twelve hours, considerably more. He hoped for a challenge, and yet he could catch up and find the culprit before the pips decreased in number any further. Sherlock’s own phone buzzed in his inner pocket. Expecting Lestrade, he wasted no time pulling it out.

Morning. How’s the case? [10:47:18]

Even his frown didn’t deepen, wondering curiously why the techy continued conversing with him. Though he did suppose he’d already deigned him with some parts of a conversation.

Ongoing. New lead just a moment ago. SH [10:47:58]

John returned, speaking of whatever show she had run that he and Mrs. Hudson were viewing on their weekly tea time. Sherlock only listened partly, watching the telly screen otherwise. There must be something he was missing. Why bring up her death if there wasn’t something suspicious about it?

“You think it’s him then, Moriarty?” Sherlock looked back at John quickly.

“Possibly.” And yet he hoped so. Any other killer being so interesting could put London to an end.

“He’s doing all this for you, you realize. The shoes, the pink phone…”

“Yes, I know. Come on, we have work to do.” Sherlock rose from his chair, looking back to his phone as John shoveled in the remainder of his breakfast.

I see. I was going to ask if you had time for coffee. [10:49:16]

Dull. SH [10:49:26] The response was immediate. Desperate indeed. He just motioned to slip it into his pocket when it buzzed again.

We can talk murder. And Moriarty. [10:49:41]

Sherlock’s brows furrowed, flagging down a taxi without needing to watch the street, or see John’s scowl as his attempts once again prove fruitless.

What of? SH [10:50:10]

Sherlock drummed his fingers over the back of his phone, eyes out the window. The bomber must have his fingers in plenty of pies, given the amount of murders he seemed to be part of. If it was Moriarty, well, it was some kind of game. He planned on winning, naturally. They were already en route to Bart’s and only a few lights away when his phone rumbled between his tapping digits.

Well, I think I might know a suspect. [10:52:14]

Sherlock only had to think ‘go on’ for the phone to go off once more.

When I started IT at a different place. This guy needed some cameras set up, but had to go through a bunch of his employees to get it done and got paid extra to keep shut up. Place looked pretty sketchy. He never let me hear his voice, only leaving notes or texts. Like hide and seek in his computer room. And he had a lot of cameras too. Everywhere. CCTV, practically.  [10:52:49]

Sherlock watched the screen, eyes darting over the words once, then twice.

I think I have time for coffee. SH [10:54:08]

 

Truth be told, the meeting was charming. A small café within walking distance of Bart’s, and not far from the diner he and John took to breakfast. He murmured some vague deductions on checking out the telly broadcasters and scurried away from the doctor. He arrived at the café just as unassuming Jim did, wearing another thin tee shirt and a cardigan pulled tight around himself. He gave one of those tiny smiles, hardly noticeable underneath his nose and hooded clubber’s eyes. Sherlock nodded and held the door open as the tech specialist slipped inside, rubbing his arms to get the warmth back into them.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Holmes. How are you?” Jim smiled a bit more forcefully as he took a seat further back in the café. Sherlock checked over his shoulder idly at the windows, and had to stop as a tiny waitress scurried past him.

“Yes, fine, people nearly dying.” With a push of his greatcoat he took a seat at the bench, Jim across from him, watching the motion avidly. Jim shrugs a little in his seat, at least having the decency to look put off by the statement.

“Well, people die every day, I suppose. Did you want a drink? I’ll buy, I called you out during the case anyway—”

“I’m fine, get what you like, but I’m more interested in what you have to say.” Sherlock said lowly. The John that occupied a space in his mind gave him that downwards tilt of his chin, disapproving. Sherlock ended his statement with a smile, hoping it would earn some points back. Just treat this as another interrogation, and Jim would be putty in his fingers. Jim’s smile faded in the slightest, his fingers wringing together where he had them placed on the counter.

“I told you basically everything, Mr. Holmes. It was just very odd, and I figured it sounded a bit like your bomber. Not letting people hear his voice and messaging through other people.”

“Or it could be a very private person.” Sherlock folded his hands into the praying pose he was so accustomed to. “Why would a criminal hire you to fix his computers?”

Jim looked sheepish. “I’ve got no idea, but I was desperate for work and he was paying out the arse. It was a bit of a mess, like someone really went to town on the network.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow and Jim inhaled. “The network, like, there’s a bunch of firewalls and encryptions that take some time—”

“Yes, I know computers, thank you. That is still bizarre. You have quite a résumé to be hired by a potential mastermind.”

Jim smiled and shrugged once more, biting at his bottom lip for a moment. “I’ll just assume that’s a complement.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t you know any useful details about this man?”

“Well, he was really super secretive…but I only brought it up because,” Jim swallowed, an expression crossing his face Sherlock couldn’t place properly. Jim took a drink of his tea, looking into the liquid before the window across the way of the establishment. “I got contacted again. Something like the last time.”

“You’re sure it’s the same?”

“The number was still in my phone. I had it set so I knew to reply to it real quick.”

“Surely he won’t like to hear that.” Sherlock hummed, earning another insufferable shrug.

“Well, they obviously assumed I’d know who it was.”

“Did he give you all the information?” Sherlock questioned, and Jim nodded. “Well…interesting.” Sherlock’s lips quirked into a smile. Oh, the riddles were one thing, but having this land onto his plate, when he had a whole eleven hours to get a one up on him! It was definitely Christmas in March.

“You’re…are you going to do something dangerous? I meant no trouble I just thought—”

“Yes, thinking, not everyone’s strong suit.” Sherlock adjusted the edges of the Belstaff, rising from his seat. Jim scrambled, unsure if to follow to sit stunned. “Have you contacted him back? Do so, schedule something. He’ll tell you the location and that you will tell me, and I will go in your place.” With an extra tug on his glove, making sure it stayed on, he turned to look back at the techy. Really, how normal people could gape like fish.

“But, but they’ve _seen_ me, Mr. Holmes.” He simpered.

“Who else would show up to the location if not you?” He shrugged once more. Really the man was focusing on the pointless bits. Getting inside and unraveling the network was the bigger challenge. “Just keep me informed of the messages. Don’t act suspicious or paranoid.”

“You think that he’ll come after me?” The techy almost whimpered as Sherlock turned away from him.

“If he had any intention of doing so I believe he would have already.” Sherlock pulled his gloves onto his fingers. “But perhaps lock your doors extra tonight. Once you give him a response he should inform you of his plans.”

“Alright, I can do that.” The man nodded, gripping his cup of tea with some ferocity. “Thanks, Mr. Holmes.”

“Let me know how it progresses.” Sherlock nodded, turning with a swirl of his coat and leaving the café. He didn’t turn back, pulling his phone out to read John’s texts questioning where he’d run off to. He slipped it back into his pocket, alongside the pink phone, as he walked back towards the hospital. The case at hand needed to be dealt with, and he had some telly to watch.

 

Sherlock had his knees drawn up to his chest, dressing gown around his shoulders limply as the telly flashed in front of him. Since moving it to the lounge for Connie Prince’s case he saw no point in moving it back. Connie Prince seemed so twenty-four hours ago. Even with the explosive ending, making John keep companionable silence between them, they managed to solve the Golem’s mystery. For the most part. Sherlock erased the fact the fiend escaped. Even John had tried making progress on Mycroft’s boring task, which Sherlock was pestered enough by to put an end to. But now there was no call from the bomber, or even the IT worker.

“Of course he’s not the boy’s father, look at the turn-ups on his jeans!” Sherlock buried his nose into the plaid gown. Gods, after such a week of incessant adrenaline how could he be left hanging like this? Someone talked over the program behind him, and he realized he still cohabitated with other humans.

“Hm?”

“Getting you, into daytime telly.” John seemed to chuckle lightly.

“Hm.” Sherlock answered.

“Did you give Mycroft the plans?”

“Yup. Happy as ever. Threatened me with knighthood, that sort.” Sherlock mumbled something of the sort, burying his toes under the edges of the robe. John rolled his eyes, and his newspaper. Sherlock’s eyes went back to the screen of the television, yet buried deep into the mind palace. The Bruce-Partington plans were quite important, and their disappearance was not as everyone thought. Almost as though the murder was a mystery not fully solved, like Carl Powers, and Connie Prince, and Ian Monkford…

Sherlock looked across the room to his laptop. A heartbeat. He moved to rise from his curled position when the knocker sounded. He whirled his head towards the door, in genuine surprise, much like John.

“Client.”

“At this hour?” John rebuked. Sherlock frowned, rose quickly, and dashed out the door, skipping steps down to the foyer. John shouted something about being indecent, but Sherlock had already unlatched and pulled it open. The sky had started to drizzle, apparently, unprecedented in the fact that Sherlock hadn’t even thought of the weather lately.

“Mr. Holmes…I…”

“Come inside, Jim.” The IT worker was shivering at the doorstep. Like some simpering widow that appeared at the flat every other week, his shoulders low, hair forced into place yet still seeming in disarray from fingers running through it. His cardigan of the day was speckled with rain droplets and he already looked soaked to the bone. Sherlock pulled the door open, stepping aside to let the small man enter, shutting and locking the latch. Without giving him another glance he headed back up the steps, taking three at a time as his mind reeled. Jim padded after him a bit slowly, gazing around the room once he set foot into it.

“You're, Molly’s boyfriend?” John sputtered from his chair, obviously preened to see who walked in behind Sherlock.

“W-well, she broke up with me, so…” Jim swallowed, looking even paler in the dim lighting of 221b,ghostly as Sherlock. “Jim is fine. You must be Doctor Watson.”

“Yes, we’ve met.”

“We—ah, sorry.” Jim looked away from John slowly, observing all the pinned bird wings and bullet casings on the shelves around him.

“What are you—sorry. Sherlock?” John looked to Sherlock, as if knowing he would know the reasoning the young man was there better than said man himself.

“Jim spoke with me not long after we met saying he believes he’s being followed. I assume his visit now means that they made some sort of move on him.” Sherlock folded his hands in front of his lips. Best not tell John their plan about a mastermind when said mastermind must be up to something under his nose, instead of finishing their game.

“Followed? And you just mention this now? Since when do you take stalking cases?” John crossed his arms, eying the IT worker with some odd look of distrust. Sherlock waved a hand, continuing to look forwards from his perch like some awkwardly majestic bird of prey. “Whatever. I’m going to bed, hardly gotten any sleep since this whole mess. Ta.” John gave a nod to Jim and set the paper down, turning the hall and heading upstairs. Sherlock counted his heavy steps upwards with drumming of his fingers. He could hear Jim catching his breath, trying to stay still and quiet, like a mouse unsure of where to hide. Once he heard John’s door shut and the mattress give its characteristic squeak, he moved his feet down so he sat in the chair.

“Well, then?”  Jim seemed startled by this.

“I-I did as you said. He didn’t reply. And all of a sudden today he tells me about how he knows what I’m up to and he doesn’t like getting played.” Jim murmured, hands wringing together. Sherlock gave a hum, waving over to the dining chair for clients. Jim took a seat, eying John’s old armchair with some envy.

“What else?” Sherlock said after a pause. “Really, an empty threat like that can’t reduce you to this.” He huffed, almost sounding disgusted. Jim turned his eyes downward, hands gripping his elbows close to him.

“Molly said you say such horrible things.” He nearly whispered. Sherlock frowned.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing, never mind it. I was just,” he sighs a quivering breath, keeping his eyes downcast, his high hairline hardly covering them. “I was scared. Still scared. Not like anyone would care that I’m gone. But what a way to go, huh. Boring.” Jim’s words hardly filled the space of the lounge, speaking to the floor in hushed tones as if his throat was closing around them. Sherlock kept breathing steadily, pinning the young man with his verdigris stare.

“Take my room.” Sherlock says after a few moments he’s sure Jim spends recollecting himself and biting back shivers and watering eyes. The IT worker peers up from the floor, confusion written on his face and his eyes shining brightly in the dim room. “Really, as if he’d come here. By tomorrow this game will be over.” Sherlock announced, folding his feet on the leader chair of his.

“But, where will you…?”

“Won’t need it. Now I need to think.” He waved a long-fingered hand in a shooing motion. Jim stared at him with wide rabbit eyes, as if afraid to move and break some unspoken kindness. It’d be more inconvenient if Jim kept pacing and babbling all night, so sleep was needed for the basest of humans to recover a traumatizing event. Sherlock rose, walking over to the desk with the dressing gown slowly dropping down his torso and t-shirt, though the detective was focused on other thoughts than some clothing. He nicked his laptop from the desk and dropped back onto the sofa, flouncing and throwing his feet over to cover the entire space. By the time the screen lit up he shot a look back towards the techy, who had not moved and simply observed. “Your breathing is distracting. Go sleep. Unless you’d rather return to your flat, that you may want to get tested for mildew.” Sherlock turned up his nose. Jim got to his feet as if just learning how to use them. Sherlock pointed behind him, towards his bedroom, without even looking over. Footsteps padded lightly away on the rug, then the wood flooring, and finally further down the hall. Finally, silence.

He tapped at the keyboard, bringing up the closed tab of his website.  He hadn’t posted since solving the painting’s origin. Could it be that the Bruce-Partington plans were really the fifth pip of this puzzle? There must be a clue he was missing. The bomber, or Moriarty, couldn’t halt his game with Sherlock for some IT worker. He doesn’t like being played, enjoys weaving his own riddles and giving clues, but not the other way. Somehow Sherlock needed to gain his interest again, yet how? There must be some reason that the bomber even took interest in the detective, all his investigations as a child, leaving him gifts, and suddenly nothing.

He felt shirked, cheated, left to hang and be teased. He had to think of something cleverer than the mastermind behind the games, something to bring him back. He was going to rip his hair out if the cases ended so dull.

He laid back, head on the armrest of the hideous couch and laptop whirring away on his abdomen. His fingers resumed their standard praying position, eyes slipping shut as he looked up at the cracks with disinteresting spiders within them. Something clever, something perfect, something to end this and come out the victor. He had to know why, knowing why would be good enough. His thoughts twisted and turned, covering all his bases, searching for the best outcome.

 

A tickle over the top of his head brought his mind back to full focus. His lids felt heavy, and he nearly groaned at the idea that he must have dozed off. He had no plan, none in the slightest, and a sigh let him settle back into the cushions, limbs liquid. There it was again, something ruffling the mess of curls already debauched by the side of the couch. He forced his eyes open, meeting the ceiling once more, laptop screen gone dark and leaving the room the same. At another gentle caress he lifted his head jerkily, gritting his teeth as what now felt like a hand left his scalp.

“Sh—I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes.” Jim’s voice fumbled a whisper. Sherlock brushed wayward bangs from out of his eyes and held his laptop to turn over his shoulder. The young man stood near the arm of the chair, hands clasped behind his back like he was hiding something. The positioning was wrong, though. Just his hands. Hands that must have previously been in his hair. Jim licked his lips and for a moment Sherlock realized he must have had the blankness of thought cross his face. “I couldn’t sleep, is all. Didn’t mean to wreck yours.”

“I was not asleep.” Sherlock grumbled, sitting up and setting the laptop on the heavily-tread coffee table. “Thinking.”

“Of course not.” Jim said quietly once more, as if going to further wake the house. “Thinking of what?”

“Moriarty.” Sherlock muttered, eying his laptop again. Jim didn’t even stiffen or flinch, following his gaze.

“You’re pretty transparent about him, aren’t you?” Jim replies, his voice still a hush but not a whisper.

“Transparent?” Sherlock spat with disdain. He turned to look at Jim only to see he’d crossed the length of the couch and sat at the other end, next to Sherlock, where he _wanted_ his feet to occupy.

“So much as mention his name and you’ll come running. I’d almost hate for my threatening mastermind to not be him.” Jim quirks a smile, getting those dimples of his highlighted in the dark, street lamps bringing light to the room.

“I just don’t tolerate idiots being boring.”

“Thank you.” Jim says all of a sudden, like breath pushed from his lungs. Sherlock stares. “For tolerating me.”

“Call it the public service John believes I need to do every decade.” Sherlock stretched over, threatening to kick Jim off the end of the couch. He inhaled as Jim simply hooked an arm under his knees and let his long legs drape over his lap. Sherlock stayed stock still, eyes wide, processing.

“I’m sorry that I…I just barged into this. For being afraid. I just focused on wanting to help you progress with the case and finding him and didn’t realize how much danger I could be in. Until now.” Jim murmured, speaking slowly, carefully picking each word from his hat of assorted vocabulary. Sherlock didn’t mention that he went from wringing his hands together to fingering at the ends of the detective’s pajama bottoms and brushing thumbs over the ankles. Sherlock didn’t mention it for fact that he wasn’t sure what to do about it.

“And you say you’re not nice. Seems you have a heart.” Jim sighs, eyes still down but focusing on the piece of detective in his lap, fingers tracing the area of the superior extensor retinaculum down towards the digitorum tendons of the knuckles of his toes. At the word ‘heart’ Sherlock refused to acknowledge the goose bumps he raised by stroking the metatarsal bones. “So thank you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Thanks are not needed. If anything it’s a case, that’s failing to reap benefits.” Sherlock scowled, and then sat up, his back straight but legs bent forward over the other man’s, leaving him at a strange acute angle. “Yes, that’s it!” His hands grabbed at the laptop within reach, bringing it to his lap.

“Wh—” Sherlock  shushes him with a loud sound, anything but hush, as his fingers fly over the keys, typing onto his blog after a glance to the clock in the corner of the screen.

_Found Bruce-Partington plans. Come collect. The Pool. Midnight._

Jim leans over, extending his neck to peer over Sherlock’s back. “Is that—you’re not seriously…”

“Of course. He hasn’t contacted me not because he wants you, he’s waiting for me to figure out the last puzzle piece.” Sherlock flew to his feet, nearly toeing Jim in the jaw in the abrupt motion. He speed-walks to his bedroom, sheets hardly ruffled by the young man that had slept within them for—well, not very long, according to the time. The wardrobe is torn up and clothing items are flung around on their hangers or to the floor.

“Mister…Sherlock!” Jim squawks from the doorway. “What on Earth are you doing?”

“Preparing for battle.  Must look my best, yes?” Sherlock’s dressing gown falls to the floor, and hearing a choked off sound from the doorway doesn’t cease his motions to getting undressed. The shirt joins the puddle of silk on the floor as he grabs at a clean dress shirt from the drawer. He pulls out a pair of bottoms next, finally noticing the tech head stepping into the room. “Not every day you encounter a nemesis.”

“I…I suppose not.” The man murmured, enough for Sherlock to forget about. His pajamas were thrown aside and his dress pants were pulled up just as quickly. He had time, honestly, but he couldn’t get ready fast enough. The suit jacket was the final touch, smoothed over his chest and a last fluff of his hair, previously askew from his lounging.

Pressure of hands made his fast-moving body freeze. The back of the jacket was brushed, the quiet shush of fabric as hands moved over it. As he stayed tense the hands skated over his shoulders, down his front. Grey-green eyes focusing, he saw the small hands, stained with pen ink, of the IT worker straightening his suit as if he were preparing to meet the PM. With such diligence that screamed experience his soft eyes trailed down the seams and buttons. Clinking of metal made Sherlock blink, eyes burning from the lack of doing so. Jim had crossed the room and retrieved a belt he had tied around his mannequin’s throat.

“Must look your best.” Jim tsked when Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. His jaw snapped shut as the fingers wove the fine leather through his belt loops, almost tickling at his waist and, well, where the front clasp was finally done. He gave it a teasing pat, making Sherlock’s spine snap straight as though ordered at attention. “Don’t be late, or stupid.”

Sherlock remained silent for what must have been minutes, trapped staring at the worker with fluttering lashes while a smile growing on the smaller man’s face.

“This is the part where I’m usually convinced to not leap before looking.”

“I won’t waste my breath.” Jim replied immediately, still smiling as if in on a joke.

“Lovely.” Sherlock breathed. Why did he sigh into the words? He was trying for dismissive. He had a date with a deviant to get to.

“You are,” Jim mumbled, having leaned forward to observe a speck on Sherlock’s collar, breathing over the bone. Wait. Sherlock’s brows cinched together once more. Opening his mouth to question or dismiss further only resulted in a gasp—a tongue traced the dip of his collarbone, where his shirt remained unbuttoned, up his throat.

“Ji—“ Sherlock had to cut this off. Perhaps an uncommon but still notable form of recovering from a bad breakup after pretending to be heterosexual (or bisexual, or any mixture of any sort) while adding on the threat of death. He was cut off, though. Not Jim, no. Sherlock’s words, even to finish the techy’s name, by the bitten-at, warm lips of the slighter man. The detective nearly staggered, but the hands that previously brushed invisible creases of his suit fisted the fabric and pulled him over several inches, the press of lips against his harder and yet more plush.

The IT worker kept Sherlock bent, even raised on his toes he would teeter more than he ought. The first press was hard, unyielding, and constant for several seconds; enough that even Sherlock’s fast-running mind had only just started churning away after a wrench was thrown into the system. Then it was more. He maneuvered his lips like some computer code, acting to his whims with simple commands that must be followed as primary directive, dragging Sherlock’s own bow lips along in the script. That tongue that had caressed his jugular now traced his lips, warm and slick and teasing, testing murky waters. Sherlock realized he had to breathe and let out a breath, heavier than intended, leaving him melting forwards as the heat pulled away.

His belt was given another tap, the sharp metal sound drawing his eyes into focus on the puppy-brown eyes wide with desire just under his nose. “Don’t be late.” Jim smiled and stepped back. If a man could fall from grace in a step, he performed, going from demanding to meek in just inches of space placed between them.

Sherlock stood as Jim returned to the bedside table, turning his small phone over his hands, the screen lighting up with the time. Sherlock stared for a couple more moments. Old phone, at least a year and a half old. Obsolete, even for a tech geek, means he can’t afford the luxury at this moment. Young, as attached to technology as a teenage girl, recovering from social anxieties by fingering at loose strings of thread or clicking buttons on a phone.

The deduction set the gears turning. The criminal, his criminal, would have seen the message. He was ready. Sherlock swept from the room with confidence of a man who had not been snogged senseless, stopping at the desk where John’s laptop rested. He pulled it open, removing the compartment beneath to reveal the box John kept his Browning hidden inside. He slipped it into the suit’s inner pocket, looking out to the dark, damp streets of London devoid of any knowing of the clash about to occur, the city’s fate likely lying in its outcome.

“Into battle.” He said, and whisked out the door without so much as his coat, hailing the cab just driving down Baker Street.

 

“I gave you my number,” Sherlock’s face drained of color as he turned to see the door opposite the swimming pool, creaking open. He’d only just entered the building. Hardly had a look around. Hadn’t even remembered to pull out the flash drive in his pocket. Rotation finished, he swallowed as the clacking of thousand pound shoes were tainted on the wretched floor of the recreation center.

“Why didn’t you call?” The Irish lilt cooed. The head of the finely-tuned and dressed man shook, as if disapproving of a child and yet laughing at their silliness.

“Jim,” Sherlock hardly heard the word leave his own lips.

“Surprise,” He sing-songed in that lovely voice. He was used to the simpering tone, not this low, molten rumble and trill. “Is that a Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just…pleased to see me?” The octave reached on those four words sent a rumble down Sherlock’s spine, settling below his stomach and burning him from the inside out.

Sherlock had no words. He was at a loss for them. An idea he’d never thought, and outcome uncalculated. A brilliant puzzle at the precipice of completion.

“Mm, yes, I see. A bit of both.” Sherlock heard the heels of the expensive shoes clacking closer, closer. He leveled his chin, the criminal just in front of him with no fear, only danger on his features. He could smell the cologne over his body. How he had the time to get so freshened up, since Baker Street…Hands pressed over the front of his suit jacket, flattening the very-much-there folds the gun and his haste formed. They continued down, downwards towards a bulge in the fabric that did not relent. His smile turned up towards Sherlock, more mischievous than ever before, even with those dimples being shadowed in the fluorescent lighting and flickering of water. “Lovely. Not every day you meet your nemesis. I even heard you were looking for me, but I couldn’t wait, couldn’t have you follow a trail away from my game. Wanted you here.” The criminal’s own rumbling voice was laced with breathiness and lust.

“Clever.” Sherlock mumbled, his own smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

“Brilliant.” Jim praised. Moriarty smiled. Sherlock pulled him into a kiss.


End file.
